


All I Want

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boring Case, Chance Meetings, Dogs, M/M, Mysterious Sherlock, Old Friends, Rain, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most frustrating thing about Sherlock wasn't that he was arrogant, apathetic, or too damn intelligent for anyone around him to keep their sanity. It was that if everyone he knew banded together, they could come up with about three page's worth of information about him. Usually people take up a whole novel. This fact became glaringly obvious when he ran into an old friend by mere coincidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rain poured above them, as it had for nearly every hour of that day. Normally Sherlock might enjoy it, but not when he was drenched so terribly that chafing was a realistic possibility. John had a scowl in his face as he scrunched his prune-y toes in his shoes, soggy-socked feet in the numbing chill. Both of the men fought not to tremble, in some vain hope of saving their dignity.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was leaning against a brick wall on their left, staring at Sherlock intensely as he waited. After a while he seemed to get fed up. “Do you have anything?” he asked, leaning forward into his field of view - just to announce that he was still there, he was still cold, and he still wanted to leave. The way he acted so inconvenienced by them made it appear as if he wasn’t the one that called for their assistance in the first place.

“Most of the data has been washed away. Any footprints or other indicators are unreliable now.” Sherlock shoved his freezing hands deep into his coat pockets, making a note to buy a pair of knitted gloves. His leather ones did little to help circulation. He took a small breath and cocked his head as he stepped around the scene, delicately placing his feet so the water wouldn’t splash up onto his slacks.

They were surrounding a man that lie face-flat on the pavement. He was in his late forties, with the obvious cause of death being blood loss, as well as the bullet lodged somewhere in his skull. He’d been shot directly in his jugular vein which caused him to bleed out quickly.  Given the bulge in the pockets of his jeans, his wallet was still on his person - and his phone was in his hand. It wasn’t a mugging.

He had trimmed nails, but his nail beds were oddly shaped - nail biter in the past, probably trimming them to stop the temptation. The calluses on his fingers, not to mention his muscular build, made it clear he worked in construction.

“Are you going to start sharing or are you just wasting my time? I want to go home, Sherlock, and I have two hours of paperwork that’s stopping me even if you solved it this bloody second,” Lestrade grunted through gritted teeth.

"If you can manage on your own I would be happy to leave you to it."

John tried to stop himself from smirking. It was surprising that Sherlock didn’t leave on the spot - curiosity must’ve gotten a hold of him.

Sherlock leaned in to inspect the bullet wound before standing up straight again. He poked his tongue at his cheek before rattling off, “Man in his later forties, twice-divorced, nail-biter, had a job that involved a considerable amount of manual labour. He also smoked frequently. Given the angle of the bullet’s entrance we can determine that he was shot from behind. It may imply he knew the person, but we can’t rely on speculation. You were unable to procure any witnesses?”

"That's correct. That doesn't really mean anything, does it?"

"On the contrary, Lestrade." The man's smirk, though slight, was all John needed to tell that he knew how it had happened.

John sighed and looked at him expectantly. "Come on. Out with it."

“Hm?"

"Don't play coy."

His lip quirked a little more and he stepped back, wiping some of the rain from his brow so it didn’t drip into his eyes. "Tell me what you can determine." It wasn’t always about showing off. He didn’t want to be there just because everyone else was too lazy to work out a situation themselves.

There was a firm purse of the doctor's lips before he lowered himself into a squat next to the body, reaching out to grab his wrist. His body was pliant and had yet to stiffen, so he hadn't been dead for more than a few hours. The man's temperature had yet to reach that of the air around them. "Time of death... I'd say five, six o'clock? Hasn't been terribly long."

"Which means..."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade huffed. "Just tell us, will you? Enough of this. I know you think it’s funny when you do it, but if you continue on like this, you'll be officially interfering with the course of justice and I'll have to arrest you."

The man raised his brow, as if daring him. Finally he huffed and said, "From five to six in the evening, the common civilian will be coming home from work. Even if the majority of the rush hour's participants are vehicle-bound, there will still be the occasional pedestrian. If you were unable to collect any witnesses, there must have been no one to perceive the signs of murder. With all of your senses, what would alert you to a wrongdoing first?"

John stood up straight with a scowl. The question was annoying, but he felt the need to consider it anyway - he always knew the right questions to ask. "Well, obviously seeing it would be enough."

"Good, but?"

"But what if you weren't in the line of sight..." He paused. "He was shot, why was no one able to hear it? And couldn't he have shouted for help? I mean, some people might not care, but I have a hard time believing so many people would be apathetic."

"There we are." A wide grin spread on his face and he peered down at the body. "Any number of things could have been done to prevent him from screaming when he was shot  - a hand, cloth over the mouth. A silenced handgun would put the person close enough to be capable of such. Call in his most recent ex-wife and you should find her in a vulnerable enough state to confess to hiring a hitman. It’s obvious she could afford it."

"Bit of a hypocrite,” Lestrade muttered.

“How?”

“Speculation. There’s nothing here that says it was his ex-wife. Couldn’t it have been any random bloke that hated him, just snapped one day?”

"How many heat-of-the-moment killings are committed by a person conscious enough to purchase a silencer before slaughtering the object of their hatred?" he asked. "More commonly it would be a knife or other weapon you don’t have to go out of your way to get a hold of." He glared at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. "That isn't enough for you. Fine, yes, let's go over it again."

He began, "Man shot from behind. How do we know this? The bullet is at an angle that points towards the victim's face, indicating that the hand was somewhat behind his head at the time. There are powder burns on his neck, so the muzzle was close to his skin. There were no witnesses, no reports of hearing a sound, so the gun was silenced. The next question would obviously be 'Who called the police?', but there's an obvious answer - his phone is in his hand. You'll find that his most recent call was to the authorities. Why do I say his ex-wife? The tan line is still prominent on his ring finger, but there's another one beneath it, a faded line that shows evidence of a ring with a wider band. Divorced twice, then."

Lestrade hummed in disagreement. "He could have lost it, though. Called for a replacement?"

"Balance of probability disagrees with that, but let's entertain the thought. Many people would be too frightened of the questions that come with losing such a sentimental object. It marks spouses as belonging to each other - who would be so careless to lose it? How does that reflect on the relationship that the object represents? Such are the thoughts of someone in this situation. He would likely want to replace the ring with an exact replica so not to tip off his wife. It's an easy enough task, seeing as accessory styles for men don't vary nearly as much as they do for women."

"I suppose. You didn't explain why it was a hitman, if this was deliberately planned. If she was looking for revenge, wouldn't she kill him with a knife - or other household object, like you suggested?"

"Women tend to be more careful in these situations."

John snorted a little. "Is there a scientific explanation for that? There must be."

The man rolled his eyes. "Testosterone has the side effect of violent emotional excitability. Increased sex drive, aggression, passion, etcetera. That's why men are more likely to be in a physical confrontation, and it's often sloppy or without care for specificity. Women, having an abundance in estrogen instead, are more likely to think about these things because they often don't have the same intensity in that physical drive - hunt, hurt, kill. It's also why they're more likely to commit suicide in a 'neater' way, in consideration for the person unfortunate enough to find them."

Great, so he didn't catch the man at pulling something out of his arse. John lived for the day he could do that - he'd caught him being wrong a small few times already - but it was too rare to get excited about every time there was a hope for it. "I guess that's it then," he sighed. “Unless something changes.”

"Disappointed?" Sherlock asked.

"A bit. You?"

"Very. There’s little to draw from. If there were anything else, I could be more certain, but I will have to be satisfied with common sense rather than show-off gimmicks. We're done here. Text me when you arrest her, Lestrade." He turned from the body and began walking from the scene, John quickly in tow. Behind them the detective inspector was rapidly typing away on his phone to get the information out.

He bit at his lip as they walked, shaking his head slightly. He didn’t have to analyse himself at all to know why he was disappointed in this case not being any more interesting - more vicious, more morbid. That didn’t mean that it was pleasant knowledge.

It was something he could never get rid of, in any case, and it was useful.

They had to make a few turns in order to get to the entrance of the alley. A ways in front of them, the line of police tape was strung up betwixt the buildings on either side of the alley. Donovan stood on the outside of it with her umbrella. She was engaged in a conversation with someone, but it didn’t stop her from glaring at Sherlock when he passed underneath the police tape, holding it up for John behind him.

John shivered a little and rubbed at his jacketed arms. "You'd figure by now she'd get the sour look off her face. You didn't happen to drug her coffee too, at one point?"

"Unfortunately not." He furrowed his brow, focusing on the person she was talking to. His voice was pleasant, but also familiar. He was about average height with dark blonde hair and a strong build that could make him nervous if he ever needed to fight the man.

He watched the detective for a moment, looking up at him. "Sherlock? What's up?"

A question-like hum was his response. He inhaled and then in a clear voice, called, "Victor?"

The man in front of Donovan turned, his eyes flicking over to the two of them.  They widened with recognition and an astonished smile spread on his face. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known that was you!” he laughed, jogging over. He pouted when the water splashed on his feet, but it didn’t stop him from ambushing the lanky man in a tight hug.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around him, grinning widely. He was hugged so infrequently that it often surprised him, but he didn’t dare stop himself from enjoying the contact - especially when it was so warm towards him.

"What... what exactly am I missing here? Sherlock?" John asked, staring at them. It was by far the friendliest gesture he’d seen out of him.

He pulled away from the man with a firm pat on the back, tugging at his coat before he looked to John again. "Ah, yes. John, this is Victor Trevor. We were friends in university."

There was a hint of glower in Victor’s expression, but it was gone so quickly John thought he imagined it. "I take it you’re a current friend. It's a pleasure to meet you, John," he said, holding out his hand.

He shook it graciously. "I'll say I'm surprised to hear Sherlock's had any friends - him calling me one is shocking enough."

"It's an honour like no other, I assure you." Victor smiled and cleared his throat. "So, did you figure out what happened? I was just trying to ask that woman over there, but she wasn't very helpful. Seems more than a little pissed off, actually."

"I'm sure that's entirely my doing. Sergeant Donovan's mood always tends to drop when I'm nearby. I don’t know how it is when I’m not present, though I can’t say I care.” He raised a hand to shake his fingers through his hair. "You knew the man."

"Somewhat. We were colleagues, but never talked much. Nevertheless... poor bastard."

"Ever the empathetic one."

"I'm only human, Sher."

John raised his brow at the nickname. Sherlock’s lack of anger towards it was even more confusing. "So, Victor, how did you two meet?"

He licked his lower lip in thought and shuffled his feet. "Ah..."

"His dog tore into my ankle one evening while I was walking about the courtyard," Sherlock said. "I was bedridden for days."

Victor grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Elegantly put. You make him sound like he was a vicious animal."

"It _was_ a rather vicious act. A good dog, however."

"Yeah." His voice was sombre and he looked crestfallen for a moment - he perked up in the next second, though. "Anyway, it was great meeting you again. I'd ask about the case, but I gather that's not something that's supposed to be talked about until it's over with."

"Not that I would care for regulation, but I tend not to talk about the unsolved ones. What if I'm wrong?" He chuckled warmly.

"Oh, I highly doubt that," John said. This humility was unprecedented in Sherlock, he was tempted to call it out right in front of his old friend. “But if it were to happen to any of them, probably this one. Damn rain.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” Victor’s smile was profound in an odd way. “I should get going, I have to walk Alistair or he’s going to piss on my rug. But, uh…” He frowned for a second as he reached into his pocket, then produced a phone and held it out to Sherlock. “It took six years to run into you again, so why don’t you make it a little easier for me?”

The man let out a little snort of breath and snatched the phone from him. “Smooth of you,” he muttered as he typed into his phone. “I don’t want to receive any phone calls.” He finished and tossed it back to him.

Victor was lucky enough to catch it and clutched it to his chest. “Yes, I remember. I’ll text you soon, alright?”

“There’s no rush.”

“Well-”

“Yes. Go walk Alistair,” Sherlock dismissed, waving a hand at him as if to shoo him off. The man walked off at a brisk pace and hailed a cab.

John stood there with a frown on his face, staring out at the street now. He didn’t know where to start. “That was odd,” he said, rolling his shoulders some.

“Was it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Smart arse. I just didn’t know you had friends. You know, before me.”

“If you become jealous I won’t be going out of my way to make sure you know you’re wanted,” the detective said as he held his hand towards the street to garner the attention of any of the passing cabbies. It’d be a little difficult to get one, what with the rain and the traffic.

“I’m not jealous.” He rolled his eyes a little and licked his lower lip in thought. “It’s just curious. He didn’t seem to like being called your friend, when you introduced him. But he hugged you.”

Sherlock quirked his brow at John just as a cab slowed for them. He decided not to humour his odd wonderings and walked to the edge of the kerb, opening the door and sliding in. He scooted all the way to the right so John didn’t have to go around the back just to get in. When the doctor was seated beside him, he told the cabbie, “221B Baker Street.” The cabbie waited until he had an opening before pulling into traffic.

John watched his friend curiously for a moment before he looked out the window. They weren’t moving much, and he was starting to think that they’d get home quicker on foot - but at the cost of a rash, most likely.

They were silent for a while, neither of them indicating that they had something to talk about. John just kept thinking about it. There was no mention of any previous friends, and while it seemed like it could be for a reason, Sherlock wasn’t a very open sort of person. Whatever was relevant was all that ever got talked about - and that frustrated him sometimes, never knowing that much about him yet trusting him with his life, even going so far to consider him as his best friend. He sighed. “I didn’t know that you got bit by a dog. You don’t seem to mind them. People tend to get irrational fears over that sort of thing.”

“It would be far from logical for me to assume that all dogs were feral beasts on account of a singular one being protective of his owner.”

“Yeah… stupid of me to think you’d ever do anything irrational.”

The man smirked and didn't respond.


	2. Chapter 2

It took half an hour for them to get home. Half an hour of sitting in sopping wet clothes, trying to ignore how uncomfortable the experience was. They didn’t say much else during that time, and when they arrived at the flat, there was a silent rush of getting out of clothes and trying to dry off. John was the one to collect their clothes and bring them downstairs to the laundry room as Sherlock took a shower. He was aware that he was hardly filthy, but physical sensations could hardly be reasoned with. After, he dressed himself in his typical lounging clothes. He found he could relax.

John didn’t take a shower, so he was sitting in front of the telly when Sherlock was finally in that comfortable state.

At nine-fifteen in the evening, Sherlock was sitting at the dining table when his phone chimed. He didn’t acknowledge it at first, as was the common attitude he held towards the object, but eventually he needed to know what information he was missing. He was engrossed in his observation of a few slides of miscellaneous substances; John only hoped that they were harmless. It didn’t matter if it was only twice that he almost accidentally poisoned himself, it was enough to make him alert of the possibility.

He continued to try getting involved with the inane soap opera in front of him, but it just wasn’t happening. He wished that Sherlock was watching it instead; it was funny watching him getting outraged and criticising the plot or a character he didn’t like. On the odd occasion he would purse his lips in this thin line and turn to another program for a few minutes just to avoid watching a particularly embarrassing scene.

In the midst of his thinking, Sherlock uttered, “Phone.”

He furrowed his brow. He hadn’t even caught the sound of a text alert – but more importantly, did the man expect him to get up and hand it to him? That wasn’t going to become routine. “I hope you’re not talking to me,” he said as he sat back more in his chair.

“I was.” He looked up from his microscope and stared in his general direction. He considered staying in this pose for hours on end, just to prove that his willpower was endless. It would be a waste, however. Being polite seemed to get John to do what he asked. “Please?”

John sighed and clicked the remote to turn off the telly before he got up. “Where is it?” he asked as he entered the kitchen.

“Left pocket.” He observed the lenses and wrote something down on the notebook beside him. There was another huff of breath from the doctor before a hand groped into his pocket, brushing against his thigh as the phone was retrieved. “Who?” He was almost certain of the sender, but Lestrade could have finally decided to get back to him on the case. He might also stay silent in a form of rebellion, in anger that he was correct.

John unlocked the phone. To his surprise, the background wasn’t anything science-related. No moody quotes about the pitfalls of humanity or emotion. It was just a photo of a coast near some hill-like cliffs – beautiful, but unexpected. He looked at the message. “It’s Victor. I don’t suppose you expect me to read it aloud for you?”

Sherlock fought the urge to reply with sarcasm. “I’d like you to, yes,” he replied instead, his tone decidedly stiff. He took the slide from the stage of his microscope and put it back into its container before replacing it with another.

“He said, ‘I’m home. Thought I’d let you know.’”

He narrowed his eyes and his lip twitched before he leaned in again to peer through the lenses. “Text back these words exactly: ‘You don’t need to design an excuse to text me. Or if you _do_ feel obligated, do try to be more entertaining.’”

John glared at him. “I’m not texting him for you.”

“Are you doing anything else?”

“I was watching telly.”

“And you turned it off. Send the text.”

John shook his head and nudged at the leg of an empty chair with his foot to pull it out. He slumped down into the seat and held the phone in his lap as he typed away. If he had anything better to do, he might have fought harder against the notion of being his messenger. “I sent it. What are you doing anyway, that you can’t text him yourself?”

“The mould in Mrs. Hudson’s basement has become troublesome, and proven to be quite persistent. I’m trying to determine what will best kill it. So far my research has been fruitless.”

He supposed it was a lot better than any of the experiments he ran that concerned dead bodies – or parts thereof. “I didn’t think you’d care all that much. It’s nice of you to try and fix it for her.”

“I’m not acting out of altruism. It has the potential to spread upwards. I wouldn’t like to have to move from our flat. Not without proving that nothing can be done to defeat it, in any case.”

He was about to respond but the phone chimed again just as he parted his lips. “He asked, ‘You just can’t let me get away with a white lie, can you?’ And then ‘How have you been?’”

The man quirked his lip and held out his hand; John gave the phone to him. He sat back as his thumbs tapped quickly on the keys. After sending the text, he turned off the ringer and set the phone down in front of John again.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course.”

 

It’s amusing rather than infuriating. I prefer white lies over others. –SH

Doing fine. Construction does you well? –SH

Happy? -SH

 

He licked his lower lip as he waited for a response. He didn’t bother asking why his responses were so short, almost apathetic in the lack of detail. It was common, but somehow he expected him to be warmer towards Victor if they were still as friendly as they first appeared. “So getting bitten by a dog sounds like a fantastic bonding method. I should try it sometime.”

The man responded only with a hint of a smile.

“So what made you two friends in the first place, anyway?”

“He was wrought with guilt after the incident with his dog. He would come to check on me while I was restricted to my bed. For ten days, I had difficulty walking and would often need crutches. I loathed every moment of it, but he was successful in providing some small form of entertainment – a distraction. The first few days we talked little, but he began staying longer over time. Victor was almost opposite to me in many respects – optimistic, warm...” He trailed off and chuckled. Moments when he described himself made him remember how unfavourable he was as a companion. “We had some subjects in common and decided to live together to preserve our resources. How fortunate that he was just as friendless as I,” he hummed.

There was something in his face that made the air feel soft. Pillowy, and just the right sort of chill. Another glance at the phone had him sighing. “‘I know. Frustrating, but something good about you, I think. Truth above all else and all that. It’s fine, I guess. Not where I saw myself going, but the work is consistent. I’m okay.’”

He didn’t like hearing that – there was a lot of work put into him, and he had the potential to be so much more. “Consistent isn’t a positive trait, it’s a fault. ‘Okay’ is unsatisfactory. Do better,” he said firmly.

He stared at him. It was unfathomable that he ever did have a friend, or that one would want to stay in contact with him. “You’re sure? I don’t want to have to relay angry all-caps criticism.”

"Send it. It's fine."

Reluctantly, he did. He got a response two minutes later.

 

_You sound like a real arse over the phone. I know what you really mean, though. Thank you._

_Good to know you care._

 

He held out the phone so Sherlock could read. He didn’t know how Victor was able to read anything but antagonism from the way he spoke.

He turned off the light to the microscope and took the phone from him. “Thank you for your assistance,” he muttered as he started typing. “I’ll clear off the table. Dinner?”

"Uh...I don't know, it's a bit late. Takeaway?"

"Yes."

He didn’t know what about Victor’s response made him decide to stop. John watched him and then asked, “Am I supposed to pretend like this isn’t weird? What happened to solving the mould problem?”

“I’ll be moving my experiments concerning mould to a storage space. If I can coerce the samples to spread on new wood, I can continue. It’ll reduce the risk of spreading it around the flat, and I would have more room to think.”

“Oh.” John bit his cheek. “I didn’t expect that. Thank you. I really wouldn’t like that,” he said as he stood. He went over to the counter and pulled out their drawer of menus. There wasn’t much point in looking through them, as Sherlock always ordered the same thing – odd how someone who claimed to hate consistency could create a routine without intending to. “What are you saying now?” He plucked his own phone from his back pocket and looked up the website for the place.

“Why do you want to know?” he countered.

“It’s no sketchy reason. You can choose not to tell me, I’m just curious.”

“Your sense of curiosity is disappointing.” He finished typing and sighed. “’There’s no need to look for hints that I care. If I did not, I would have ignored you or refused to give you my number.’”

John scoffed a little as he started putting in the order. It was hard to do it on his phone, but at this point he was too far into the process to grab his laptop. “You make me nervous when you do that. I keep thinking that one day you’ll offend some poor bugger to the point of them trying to shove a chainsaw down your trousers.”

He had a difficult time suppressing his grin. “Your way with words is something I admire. If you used that class of colourful language in your blog I might not detest it so much.”

“If you don’t like my blog, you don’t have to read it. It’s not like I do it for you anyway.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t,” he persisted.

“Then why do you insist on including me in whatever drivel you write?” Sherlock asked, looking at him pointedly.

“Because nothing happens to my life when you aren’t in it.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. If he didn't know otherwise he would've told him that was the stupidest thing he'd ever said. “Copy that down and send it to one of your girlfriends, I’m sure they’ll adore it.”

John just giggled. “Say anything yet?”

He gave a non-committal hum before checking.

 

_I’m lucky I know you so well, otherwise I’d probably be insulted._

_Not sure this is working for me. Do you have anything on this week? You’re not that talkative in text._

 

“He asked if I have any plans for this week.”

“I suppose he didn’t say why.”

“Apparently I’m more talkative in person.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at his phone for a while. “Do you have any plans this week?” Sherlock asked. There was a slight pout on his face as he tried to recall if the doctor had mentioned anything. He often filtered that nonsense out.

He shook his head as he scrolled down to confirm the order. “No, nothing so far. Why do you ask?”

“Wondering. If I were to leave the flat, I’d prefer to do it on a night where you had a date. I’m sure that your sexual conquests are entertaining in your perspective, but I’d rather not have to tune it out.”

His eyes went wide and he coughed a little, his face turning red as he averted his eyes. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that the man had to overhear the odd occurrence, but they usually had this unspoken rule about mentioning it. Not that he couldn’t have a mature conversation about it, but... well, Sherlock never seemed to like when sex was brought up outside of medical jargon. “I’ll keep you posted. If it bothers you that much, maybe come talk to me instead of complaining about it out of bloody nowhere.”

“It isn’t a complaint.” He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to find the proper words. “I find it uncomfortable, but I have ways of blocking it out. I was simply being candid. What occurs in your bedroom is only the concern of you and whomever you invite into it.”

John groaned in discomfort and nodded. “All right, sure. Can we be done with this now?”

“Of course.” He tapped his fingers against the backside of his phone before sending a reply.

 

Tomorrow at noon. –SH

The address is 221B Baker St. -SH


	3. Chapter 3

John spent most of the morning in his bed. He didn’t often go comatose like this, but he’d had a long week of wiping the runny noses of children and sticking his fingers up random men’s arses – changing gloves and washing hands between, of course. It was exhausting to the point where some days he wanted to give his two weeks’ notice and start looking for something more dignified. The work didn’t have to be cleaner, but he'd like to be more appreciated.

It was Saturday. If he so wished, he could lie in bed for the entire weekend and only have to text Sherlock that he was still alive to remain undisturbed. As glamorous as it sounded he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold up to it. Sherlock might. He was an unsociable creature, polite only to strangers, often spending days or weeks without talking to anyone outside the confines of their flat – when he wasn’t on a case.

That wasn’t to say he stayed at home all the time. The man often left to walk about the city, and made the effort to at least appear like he was expecting company. On the rare occasion he shopped, but after the first few times, John decided not to accompany him any more. Over time he could just _see_ Sherlock’s patience deteriorating along with his verbal filter, almost unaware of the controversial topics he brought up in public. It was embarrassing to be around him only because he didn’t have the good sense to be discreet.

At around ten in the morning there was bustling around the flat. He could hear the shower running and smell tea, then Sherlock playing his violin. It was seldom ever a cheerful melody, but a depressing one was just as scarce. John often imagined that it was his way of tossing out the unpleasant emotions, but that was just his own take on it.

He looked at his phone at eleven and decided he needed to get up and be productive. Sherlock had informed him that Victor would be visiting, and the doctor wasn’t about to let a stranger see their home look like a bomb went off. He knew that Sherlock would be secretly grateful as well, even if he complained a few days later when he couldn’t find something that was moved to its proper place.

John left his bedroom with a short stack of clothes in his hands and gave a little “Hey” to Sherlock just to let him know he was up. The man didn’t respond, likely not hearing over the violin. He went to the bathroom and proceeded to take a shower.

Sherlock was by the window looking at the street, the glass covered in droplets that sounded like pebbles when they clashed against it. He took in a deep breath of the chill, light air and sighed when he lifted his chin from the instrument and laid it across the windowsill.

There were plenty of things he detested about London – the sound, the alienation between passersby – but one thing he consistently enjoyed was the rain. As long as he wasn’t being drenched in it while he was busy. Outside of cases, downpour was downright welcome. London was a wise choice for work, and he had a few things he enjoyed about it, but on occasion he would lust for a place more remote. Just a few thousand less people and he could be pleased here.

As he thought, a smile curled at the corners of his lips. He listened to himself objectively and found it amusing how he could think in such a way, as if he loathed the entire human race. He did and he didn’t. They were selfish and arrogant, did reprehensible things for greed (or even worse, false or unwholesome love), became professionally offended, but he came across one or two that made him glad he ever decided to speak. The ones that made loyalty mean something again. Most days it was John. Lestrade proved himself worthy of that sort of thinking when the time called for it, as well.

To him, loyalty was this non-existent thing that was forgotten about until a difficult situation presented itself. That was when it reared its head and smacked him in the face. He could be loyal; he was, actually, to those who showed him respect and proved that they deserved it as well. Anyone else was quickly lost and wouldn’t be protected unless he had a personal reason to do so.

Strangers didn’t count in that scenario. They were thought as innocent and deserved the benefit of the doubt.

For the past half hour he’d been sitting on the arm of the sofa with his feet perched on the windowsill, holding a mug of tea in his hand. He finished it over time and couldn’t be bothered to move and put it down, lest his thoughts be disturbed. Behind him, John moved about the flat and cleaned it up a bit for a while, then flopped in his chair.

“What time did you say he was coming over?” the man asked as he pulled his laptop from the end table into his lap. He opened it and waited for it to boot up before going to his email. Nothing of importance awaited him.

“Noon. For a while I considered requesting that he bring Alistair, but the weather isn’t suitable for it. Cabbies don’t like their necks covered with drool either.” He hummed into his mug before remembering that it was empty, and reached to set it on the coffee table.

John peered at him over his laptop. “You seem eager.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, perched up like that in front of the window, watching.”

“I was watching the rain. Glaring at the road would not change the time that Victor arrived, no matter if I was eager or not.”

“Mm.” The sound was oddly disbelieving, but without a determined inflection.

“What?”

“Nothing, really.” John poked his cheek with his tongue before closing his laptop. There wasn’t a point in trying to multi-task. “You two seem friendly. It just makes me wonder why you didn’t keep in touch.”

Sherlock ran his thumb across his jaw as he considered the statement, searching for an answer. It was hardly the man’s business but he deliberated over the logical sense in it anyway. “It was a logical decision. We were still young men and couldn’t be held to the decisions we made then, and it would have been unreasonable to put stock into promises. We wished each other well and that was it, for the time being.” He spoke of it with an almost proud air, as if he were happy with the progression made in that small arc of a story. John couldn’t imagine how.

He was about to ask more, but the doorbell rang. Full pressure, perhaps a second. Given the time, there was no doubt that it was Victor. John started to get up to answer it, but the detective waved his hand in dismissal. Mrs. Hudson would get it. She often answered the door because she was the closest to it, not to mention she had the most visitors out of the three of them.

The older woman’s cheerful demeanour was well-received by the man, his husky voice radiant and sociable as he introduced himself.

There was nothing notable about it until Victor said the words “old friend”, which got the woman on an excited spur. Her footsteps practically pounded up the staircase as she led him up, and the door to their flat opened.

“Sherlock, there’s a man here to see you – a friend?” she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. Her entire body oozed the wish that it was true _._ As if having a friend was so out of the ordinary... oh, well he supposed it was.

Victor gave a bit of an awkward wave, clearly embarrassed by the woman’s reaction. “How’s it going?” he asked, scratching at the back of his neck. He’d been fine until she treated him like the missing link.

Sherlock chuckled and hopped onto his feet, stepping on the coffee table on his way over to them. “As well as you’d expect. Mrs. Hudson, please stop gawking and go back to waiting by the telephone. I’m sure that your sister will be calling any moment to complain about her husband. You wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to feel glorious about the late Mr. Hudson, would you?” His tone was a sweet warning, clear he was uncomfortable with the attention brought onto his guest.

Mrs. Hudson scoffed at him a little, but she didn’t seem too offended. She was far too used to his casual banishing that the fact he’d been polite about it was something to mark on a calendar. “I should actually call her, now that I think about it, Gerome’s recently got that hip replacement and I imagine he’s used it to extort all sorts of coddling from her,” she mumbled, half to herself, as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Victor mouthed a clear “Thank you” before he rolled his shoulders, as if shaking it all off. “Pleasure to see you again, John. I was unaware you lived with Sherlock.” Something to his smile was tongue-in-cheek.

“Well... yes, we’re flatmates,” he said as he got up. Despite his curiosity, he wasn’t totally eager to be involved with them catching up. He wanted to hear things without feeling like the third wheel. “I’ll make up some more tea. Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” the man said with a frown as he took off his jacket. He looked to Sherlock and was about to ask where he could put it when the detective gestured to their little coat tree. “Thanks,” he said, and hung it up. John had already left by the time he looked back.  

Sherlock stood staring at the living room, part of him grateful that John cleaned up. On the other hand, it was a lie. Not an important one. “Sit wherever you like,” he announced, and with that he was stepping around chairs, onto the coffee table so he could flop back onto the sofa. He watched Victor try to figure out where it would be best to sit – he recalled he liked to make eye contact, often sitting across when there was room to sit next to him. “The leather chair is mine, feel free.”

“Thank you.” Victor sat and sunk slightly in the seat, the material creaking underneath him. He looked down at his hands for only a moment before his eyes met Sherlock’s. Victor's eyes were this piercing blue, bright but not devoid of saturation. He seemed to be weighing his options before he spoke again.

“It was nice to run into you again. I didn’t even think that it would happen. I mean, I did end up wondering about you, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it.”

“Understandable.” He lent him that only because he couldn’t find a reason to criticise him for not using the obvious methods. Sometimes he did have to be fair. “How did you manage to go from a graduate chemist to a construction worker?”

He burst out in a low chuckle, grinning to himself. The bastard never had the good sense for meaningless small talk, which was why he probably came off like such an arse when they weren’t sitting in front of each other. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. I applied for a few jobs, but it took a while to get any sort of notice. They want people with experience, which is all well and good, but a paid internship wasn’t enough for me to live off of at the time. I had other obligations.”

He noted the vagueness. A sudden “Ah” left him and Sherlock rubbed his fingers together, his lips pursed. When they were still living together, Victor’s father died. It left him responsible for his mother, who was too proud to go to a hospital but too ill to work. The way he spoke about her in past tense told him everything he needed to know. He was unsure what to say. “You have my condolences,” Sherlock forced out, each word like grinding rocks with his teeth.

Victor watched him and gave a soft nod. The effort didn’t sneak past him. “Thank you. It means a lot to me,” he whispered. He took a slow breath, letting it swell in his chest before he let it out. “Anyway, how have you been? You seem to be better off than when I lost saw you.”

He quirked his brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know. People.”

“Oh,” Sherlock laughed as he ran his hand through his curls. At first it sounded condescending, which didn’t fit his usual behaviour. “It was never as terrible as it appeared. I prefer not to be dragged into every meaningless interaction, but it’s necessary to create some of my own to obtain information. Companionship has its benefits as well.”

“Yes, I noticed.” He drew his tongue across his teeth as he looked around the room. He knew that Sherlock’s habits of organisation hadn’t improved. Everything _looked_ neat but it was still this odd code of usefulness. “So how long have you and John known each other?”

It was then that the man emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, barely catching the last snippet of conversation. “It’s been about three, almost four years,” he answered as he stood in front of the man, holding out a mug.

A slight smile spread on his face and he thanked him as he took the mug with both hands. John seemed nice, if a bit too pedestrian. He couldn’t make that judgement without turning a critical eye to himself, however. “Quite a while, then. Does he give you much trouble?”

Sherlock gave him a bit of a glare, but it was all in good humour. “I was unaware you turned into my mother, Victor.”

The man chuckled just as John started walking over to the detective. “I could do without the body parts in the fridge and the occasional poisonous substance lurking in our cabinets, but it’s generally all good,” he said as he held the other out. Sherlock took it with an appreciative nod.

“Ugh, he does that with you too?” Victor cried, grinning. He shook his head and drank some of his tea. “I could never break him of that habit. Tossing it out only earned me a night of bickering, but eventually I just set aside a shelf for all the cyanide and whatever else. No more complaints after that.”

John hummed in thought as he sat across from him, adjusting the union jack cushion before he could relax. He’d left his tea in the kitchen and forgotten about it until now. “I just might have to try that. It’d certainly stop me from wondering if I should fear for my life every time I go to make myself some eggs.”

Sherlock watched them talk as he drank his tea, just observing. They seemed to get on well as soon as they had something in common to talk about, but it was unfortunate that _he_ was the subject. “Both of you are too quick to talk as if you have no flaws of your own,” he muttered into his mug.

“None as terrible as yours, Sher.”

That earned a bit of a chuckle from the doctor and he crossed one knee over the other, sighing softly. “What’d he complain about you the most, then?”

“Oh, he’d always get cross when I tried to wake him up for anything important. It almost seemed like he was mad at _me_ whenever he had an appointment or something. Go rushing about the flat grumbling and cursing like a bloody sailor – that was always his meanest.” Victor looked to his lap and smiled to himself. “But he’d always apologise after, looking like a kicked puppy. It was cute. Worth it.”

“I’ve never needed to wake him up for something, so I’m sort of glad I don’t have to deal with the first part. The apology would be nice, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought his leg up onto the sofa. It was annoying, listening to them going on about all that. He didn’t have anything to add to the conversation that wasn’t a petty snap, a pathetic attempt at putting them back in their respective places. “We were talking about you, Victor,” he prompted instead.

“Well actually we were talking about you and people, but I get what you’re going for.” Victor set his mug down on the end table before relaxing into the chair, crossing his leg over his knee. “Okay, so what do you want to know? There’s nothing really special that’s gone on. Surprised you haven’t scoffed and shouted ‘boring’ yet.”

John let out a soft breath and shook his head, looking at the floor for a second. “I never figured I’d be in this position. Getting to learn that I’m not the only one who’s had to struggle with him. I mean – no offence, Sherlock, but you are a bit of a hassle.”

He glared at his own mug of tea with an unquestionably murderous look on his face, but said nothing. He would have to separate them in the future, or just not talk to Victor at all. “I’m going for a walk,” he declared, putting his mug aside as he sprung up from the sofa, dashing over to the door. He tugged his coat from the tree and started to put it on.

“Sherlock – I was just kidding, you don’t have to huff off,” John said, sighing as he rubbed at his forehead. He didn’t look much like it, but sometimes he could be so damn sensitive.

Victor gave him a small warning look and signalled for him to stop. “It’s fine. Do you want me to leave?”

The detective shook his head, tying his scarf around his neck. Without a word, he snatched up an umbrella and left the flat. The door slammed behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

John almost wished that Sherlock banished Victor from the flat. He tapped his fingers against his knee and let out a solemn sigh.

"He'll get over it," Victor assured him. "I've learned that him leaving is a favour."

"How so?"

Victor paused. "Have you ever seen Sherlock angry?"

John frowned and thought back. "I think so. I've definitely seen him when he's pissed off before."

"No disrespect, but I doubt it." He sat forward and cupped the mug of tea between his hands. "Sherlock has a long fuse, almost a saintlike patience. Don't get me wrong, he'll be clear when he's annoyed. It just takes quite a bit just to make him snap at someone, never mind getting angry. At the end of his fuse there's enough dynamite to cause a cave-in." Victor drank some of his tea and sighed. "And I don't mean to disparage him when I say that. It's true, and he knows it. And I respect him all the more for being able to know his limits and leave before they're breached."

He didn't respond for a while. Victor's insight on the matter brought sense to some of the arguments he'd had with the detective. Things would get heated and Sherlock would leave in a huff. "It never occurred to me to think of it that way," he said. "I always thought he was just running from confrontation."

Victor quirked his brow at him. "That doesn't sound like Sherlock at all."

"No, it doesn't. I just didn't have anything else to think."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood beneath the awning of a cheap restaurant, cigarette held firmly between his fingers. His arm hung by his side and he tapped the cigarette against his thigh in deliberation: whether or not to indulge. Normally this was no struggle of a decision, but he couldn't ignore the qualities of the situation. If he resorted to smoking in every moment of stress or minor ruffle, he'd begin sowing the seeds of psychological addiction. With that in mind, he put the cigarette back in its back and tossed it all into the rubbish bin.

The slight twinge of regret proved it was a wise choice.

He blew out a foggy breath and sat at one of the tables, holding his umbrella between his legs. A light sprinkle was spraying on the kerb and the street beyond it. It would soon get worse.

If he returned to Baker Street now, he doubted he would be able to talk as if everything were normal. His annoyance, though justified, was short-lived. Now he was only dreading the idea of seeing either of the men again. He didn't blame Victor for this - and John was guilty of pushing too far, but it wasn't intentional.

 

* * *

 

It was about one in the afternoon when Victor left, shortly after receiving a text from Sherlock. He shared no details, but John guessed that the detective’s words weren’t very kind. If he meant to show affection for his friends, he was indeed a master of subtlety. If it weren’t for Victor’s optimistic look on his relationship with Sherlock, he might have pitied him.

John spent the next three hours answering emails and working on a blog post entailing the uneventful case from the night previous. Even he knew it was pointless, and it would never see the light of day. It was just difficult to sit around waiting for Sherlock to come home. In the second hour, he wondered if his friend would return at all.

He threw the notion from his mind.

The guilt had been suppressed during that time, but the moment a key scraped into the lock, it surged up. He looked from his laptop to the door and swallowed once Sherlock emerged. John’s lips parted to speak an apology but Sherlock’s forced, well-meaning smile silenced him.

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf, settled his umbrella in a corner, and made way to the sofa. He curled his body into himself and stared out the window. The rain splattered and pounded against the glass.

The men let the silence have its peace and drown out the words that they both believed ought to be said.

A half hour later, John closed his laptop and set it on the end table, heading for the kitchen. He took out the ingredients for pasta and started working on dinner.

“I can see why you were friends with Victor,” John shouted over water running from the tap. Once the pot was filled, he turned off the water and moved it to the stove. He lit the burner underneath. “He seems to understand you well.”

Sherlock hummed in response and tore his gaze from the window to John. It didn’t surprise him much that John and Victor talked while he was out, but he didn’t imagine the conversation to be enlightening. “Is that so,” he murmured to himself. He rose to his feet and walked over to the kitchen, leaning against a counter. “You seemed to enjoy talking to him.”

John frowned. “You say that like I shouldn’t.”

“Not at all, I’m simply surprised. Given your initial hesitancy I thought you might hate his guts.”

“My ‘hesitancy’?”

“That’s the nicest word I had for it.”

He furrowed his brow further and looked back down to the pot. The water was bubbling slowly. “Well thank you for doing me the favour of sugar-coating it,” he muttered, laughing.

Sherlock shrugged lightly. “Does me no good to have an angry doctor in the flat. What if I injure myself?”

“You’ve injured yourself before and you’ve never come to me for help.”

“The moment I can’t handle it on my own, I will.”

John chuckled, and was graced with the detective’s grin. “You’re very determined to be independent, you know.”

“And?”

He pursed his lips in thought. “And it can get in the way of things.”

Sherlock watched for a minute as John tore open a box and emptied the contents in the now boiling water. There was no wondering what John was talking about, or even why he brought it up now. He looked to the wall opposite him and sighed. “I’m sorry you feel I’ve wronged you.”

John’s eyes widened and he stared at him. Where did that come from? “Sorry, what?” he asked.

“Mm. Perhaps I should have held my tongue.” He brought his fingers to his chin and let a hum rumble in his throat. “I’ll simply put it this way and save myself some defensive rambling: My lack of impulse to talk about myself and all the mundane details of my life says nothing about you. Try not to take offence, hm?”

“Oh,” John laughed. “Yeah. Will do.”

“Good?”

He nodded. “Yep. We’re good.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you going to see him again?”

Sherlock tore his gaze from the window and lifted the bow. He plucked a few strings of his violin and turned to eye John carefully, a small frown upon his face. “I haven't decided,” he said. “Why?”

John shrugged, the pages of his newspaper crinkling. “Just thought I'd ask.”

“Mm.” He returned to drawing the bow across the strings, playing an idle melody as he watched the window. The rain had let up over night, and they were given a sprinkle. If they were on another case, he'd rejoice. Unfortunately this was not true.

John's eyes scanned the pages, but he made no sense of the words. Sherlock made no mention of Victor that morning, and as far as he could tell, the detective made no contact with him either. If it weren't for the fault lying at his feet, John might not care so much. “You aren't giving him the silent treatment because of yesterday, are you?”

A small chuckle erupted from him. “No. That'd hardly be fair.”

“Ah. Good.”

John looked back to his paper once more. Nothing of any interest. He sighed and laid it over the arm of his chair, tapping his fingers in wait.

The other man remained silent.

He licked his lower lip and started brushing his hand through his hair. With every passing minute, the situation became more uncertain. “So why don't you know why you want to see him again? Nothing's changed, has it?”

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he brought the violin from under his chin, setting it down on the window sill. He tapped the bow against his leg and tilted his head at John. “You care.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Change the subject. I want you to answer the question, not make it about me.”

Sherlock hummed in disappointment and shrugged. “My answer is lack-lustre. I simply don’t know. There may be obstacles that prevent us from meeting again.”

“And what obstacles would those be?” asked John.

He sighed in exasperation and placed the bow beside the violin, then moved to sit in his chair. Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and stared at the wall opposite him. “I could hardly list them all. Sometimes things happen and get in the way. The future of our interactions is by no means doomed, but it’s possible.”

“You’re being tremendously vague.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, closing his eyes tight. When they opened again, Sherlock was glaring at him intensely. “What, Sherlock?”

“You really _do_ care, don’t you? Why?”

“Any answer I have isn’t going to be good enough. You’ll make it into something bigger.”

He gave a breathy laugh and frowned, as if admitting John was right. “Perhaps that’s true, but we shall never know until you try.”

He smiled, but remained quiet for the time being. Times like this, he always had to find the right words. He didn’t want to be misunderstood – especially in a way that would insult his friend. What was there to say? “I didn’t even know you had a friend before me until a few days ago. It’d be shit to watch you lose him too.”

Sherlock smirked, but it was more sombre than cheeky. “I’m not going to ‘lose’ Victor, John. The mere thought seems almost pathetic to me.”

“Thanks.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. I... _physically_ cannot worry about it.”

“Ever consider that maybe you should?” John asked. He licked his lip and stood, stepping to the mantle above the fireplace. The skull that sat on the surface bored its eye sockets into him, and John picked it up. “Did you ever worry about losing this fellow? You don’t keep things for no reason – this isn’t a decoration to you, I know it isn’t.”

The detective swallowed and leaned back into his chair. His fingers stroked the smooth leather. “You’re correct,” he conceded. “Your point?”

“What is this skull to you, Sherlock?”

His voice took an uncertain tone as he said, “I don’t understand what you’re looking for.”

John shook his head. “Forget what you think I’m looking for. I want you to figure it out yourself.”

Sherlock sighed at him and propped his head up with his hand. “It’s just an object. It doesn’t have any use-“

“Exactly. It’s useless, so why keep it?”

“Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“No – Sherlock, that’s not what I’m asking. Explain to me what compels you to keep it.”

He fell silent for a long while. The point was absorbed in but an instant, yet he didn’t have a proper answer. Sherlock watched John’s hand waver in the air, the skull moving with it. Eventually he exhaled. “I think I ought to keep it, shouldn’t I?” he asked himself, muttering. “Fine, yes. I get the point. It means something to me so I keep it. Can you please get to the meat of the matter?”

John sighed and set the skull back down. “That’s part of it. But you keep it because whatever person whose brains it held isn’t around anymore, yes? Whatever that person was to you, they’re not here.”

“Sure,” he said with a stern nod. A light returned to his face: recognition. Before then, he’d been slow and tentative.

The doctor pursed his lips in thought, then admitted, “I don’t want you having another skull on your mantle, all right? Maybe I’m missing some nuanced profundity or something, but you don’t talk to Victor like a friend, you talk like you barely tolerate him. Like an estranged child or something. He seems to be able to translate what you say into what you mean, and you’re lucky. He shouldn’t have to. I’m not asking you to do anything – I know there’s a limit to how much of this is my business. I just really don’t want to sit here and watch you lose your grip on someone because you’re a fucking tosser that doesn’t know he ought to show his friends some bloody appreciation without making them jump through hoops to understand.”

Sherlock cracked a wide grin and covered his mouth, quiet chuckles leaving him. “You can stop now, I see your point.”

“Do you?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’ll think on it.”

John smiled. “Thank you. That’s all I want. And we can... drop it, now. I won’t drag you through this over and over again.”

“I appreciate it greatly, John.” Sherlock scratched his chin and sat up, licking his lower lip. “I’m going for a walk. May be a while, but I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“All right, you do that.”

“Maybe give Sarah a call.”

John quirked his brow and stared at him. “Why would I do that?”

Sherlock rose with a smirk and buttoned his suit jacket. “Just a thought.”


	6. Chapter 6

He stood upon the doorstep, his heart thrumming in his ears. Blood rushed to his cheeks at his own silliness, and he held in a breath to keep from laughing. He had to suck it up. Sherlock took in a lungful of air before he finally rapped his knuckles against the door. A sharp sting radiated through the joints and he hissed as the door opened.

Victor’s friendly smile caused him to lose his grasp on all the words he’d muttered to himself on the way over.

He was still in clothes suited for lounging around the house. “Sherlock… I didn’t expect you.” His words were filled with neither disappointment nor anger. Victor’s eyes widened with concern and he stepped out in the hall, closing the door behind him. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock stared at him and his nose crinkled. “I’m perfectly fine, why do you ask?”

“Usually by now you’ve spoken.”

“Ah.” He chuckled and looked at his knuckles before letting his hand dropped. “I wanted to apologise for yesterday. That’s not how I wanted that to go.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for from where I’m standing.”

“Yes, but that’s because you’re more understanding than most people deserve.” Sherlock offered a soft smile, then cleared his throat. “And I also apologise for turning up on your doorstep when you haven’t given me your new address. I try not to stalk people – well, people I like.”

Victor’s eyes seemed to brighten at the remark, and he scoffed. “Why the surprise? You _knew_ this.”

“Oh, definitely. You wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Victor grinned. A whine at the door got his attention. “Do you want to come inside?”

Sherlock rolled on the balls of his feet, then nodded. “Yes. If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“You know I’m not.”

“But there’s something to be said for manners.”

“Fair enough,” he said, turning to open the door. “Back,” he bade the source of the whining, and Sherlock shuffled in behind him.

The whining increased until they were both inside. Sherlock’s eyes shot wide and he stumbled back when two large paws started smacking and sliding against his abdomen, unable to stay steady. He grinned down at the dog and scratched him behind the ears.

Victor couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. “Alistair, come here. Let him get in the flat before you assault him, all right?” The dog bounded across the flat and passed by a knotted rope, which he started tearing into in eagerness.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and looked back to Victor. “How long have you had him?”

“Barely a year. You should’ve seen him when he was still a little puppy. Shame they grow so quickly.”

“It is,” he agreed.

Victor’s flat was small, but charming. The man never liked to live beyond his means, and Sherlock imagined he was quite happy here. A small table with two chairs sat by a half-open window, which was the only source of light at the moment. A book lay open on the right side. He’d interrupted his reading.

Footsteps led to the kitchen, followed by the clinking of ceramic. “Tea?”

Alistair continued shaking his rope with playful growls. Sherlock watched with a slight smile.

“Sherlock?”

His gaze snapped back towards the kitchen. “Mm?”

Victor laughed under his breath and poked his head out around the corner. “Tea?”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Please.” He looked over to the sofa and the bookcase beside it. He wandered over and thumbed through them, mouthing the titles to himself. Most of the spines had been cracked, some multiple times.

None of it was a surprise.

Outside of those long nights filled with suppressed panic, Victor usually had his nose shoved in a book. He’d sit across the room with a paper in front of him, pen in hand, but no new words were being written. A smile spread whenever Victor shook with stifled laughter.

And they’d lived small, huddled together every winter night to avoid getting up to turn on the electric blanket – or heaven forbid, turning on the heat. Never was there a complaint from either man.

A hand nudged his shoulder. “See something you like?”  

Sherlock looked up. Victor stood in front of him, holding a mug of tea. “I was just looking. You have good taste. Thank you,” he said, taking the mug with both of his hands. He drank down some of the warm tea, sighing into the mug.

Victor sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside him. “Your influence.”

“You do me too much credit,” he said as he sunk down, one of his legs tucked underneath him. “If I were more vain, I’d take it to heart.”

“You’re not vain, Sher.”

“No?” He raised his brow.

“No.” Victor drank and held his mug on his knee. “Maybe lose yourself in your head sometimes, but you’re not self-absorbed. And you know me. Not one to kiss arses.”

“Good point.” The curtains beside the window fluttered. “I’m afraid I must apologise to you. Sensing a theme there.” Sherlock shook his head. “For all the grief I give him, John’s a good man. He’s astoundingly intuitive...yet dim at random intervals. I’m amazed.”

A snort of breath left him and he leaned to catch his expression, but caught nothing. “What do you think you need to apologise for?”

“I’ve been cruel to you, and I ought not to be.” Sherlock gulped down more of his tea and fixated on the window. “Victor, I don’t care what you do as long as you’re not in danger of starving to death. It was bloody rude and inexcusable for me to say it isn’t good enough, and to ‘do better’.” He grimaced.

“Ah, Sherlock...” Victor reached out to set his mug on the end table. “I knew you were just trying to look out for me. And what you said isn’t far off from what I’ve been thinking lately. Thank you, though.”

“I’ll try not to make you translate what I say to what I mean. It’s not exactly fair.”

“You act like you’ve been burdening me.”

“Haven’t I?” he asked.

He shook his head. “No. You have your own way of putting things, sure, but it’s never been a stretch to figure out what you mean. And if I were bothered by it, I wouldn’t put up with it for long.”

Sherlock shrugged in agreement. “That’s a fair point.” He relaxed into the sofa and sipped at his tea for a minute. “I suppose I got myself all worked up for nothing. I was convinced I wouldn’t leave without grovelling.”

Victor laughed and scratched his neck. “I’d never do that to you.”

“Liar,” he mumbled into his mug with a grin.

“Well, not for something like this.” He went quiet for a while, his hands settling in his lap. He searched for the memory of the last time they sat like this. As the feeling filled him again, Victor sighed. “I’d like to see you more, after today.”

Sherlock lowered the mug with a nod. “I would too.”

His breath hitched in hesitation before he suggested, “Maybe without John, for a little bit. Things are already awkward without adding someone else into the mix. Don’t want to accidentally gang up on you again.”

The detective chuckled and leaned forward to set his mug on the table, then got to his feet. “Speaking of which, I should be on my way back. John’s making dinner and I ought to help him out for once. But yes, I agree.”

Victor smiled and followed him to the door. “Thank you for stopping by. See you sometime this week?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned back at him and started to walk down the brightly illuminated hallway. The door closed.

When he arrived at Baker Street, it was five fifty-two, about three hours after he’d left. Most of that time was spent trying to get the details on Victor. He had to go to Scotland Yard and ask for details about the man from the dead-end case, then go to his place of work and find Victor’s office. His address book had then led him to the flat.

Sherlock’s head was heavy as he left the cab and stepped up onto the kerb. Though it was practically in his job description, using such underhanded means to find Victor wasn’t something he felt proud of. The man’s easy forgiveness didn’t make it any better. He tried to focus on the positive ending instead.

The sprinkling started to soak into his suit as he unlocked the door.

Upon entering, he was hit with a subtle aroma. Sherlock’s brow crinkled and he carefully stepped further into the entryway, sniffing here and there. He stopped by Mrs. Hudson’s door and found nothing there, so he walked up to the door to their flat. Once he opened the door, all curiosity was disintegrated.

A sound he loathed to recognise originated from the upstairs bedroom. Voices, panting... a headboard knocking into the wall.

He closed the door and scurried down the stairs.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Violet and pink hues blurred through the sky, originating from the west where the sun was beginning to set. Clouds took on shades of the sky, their crests darkened with curious shadows. Its full beauty was inappreciable, as buildings of all manner of heights and widths obscured the horizon.

In several anecdotes, it has been noted that when visiting different cities and other categories of grouped civilizations, the rate at which time passes can vary to the observer. This is anecdotal, of course, because time has a definite value. A clock will tick at the same rate for years and be forever accurate as long as it has not suffered defects, travelled time zones, or been neglected in the semi-annual Daylight Savings Time correction.

An even further precise and accurate clock exists that measures time based on the electronic transition frequency of one of three regions (microwave, optical, ultraviolet) of the electromagnetic spectrum of atoms. It is the most accurate clock ever known, named the atomic clock.

Such supports the assertion that the notion that time passes at different rates is purely subjective. It may be noted that different environments yield different perceived rates, and further, that these environments are affected utmost by the quantity of decorations. Such decorations include houses, shops, offices, cars... people. An hour in a barren wasteland is a lifetime, where it is but a moment in a bustling region such as London.

Several million people lived in London. Most of these people had jobs, families, and a billion concerns that they were obligated to tend to. They were also surrounded by many decorations – and that’s precisely what they were, for they interacted so little with their environments beyond what they must. Days swept by and young bright-faced men and women soon morphed into wrinkled husks with dead eyes, shadows of their former selves – and in so little time.

Given these observations, it should come as no surprise that Sherlock Holmes was one of eight people, of a population upwards of eight million, to be gazing up at the exquisite sky at 6:53 on one autumn evening.

 

* * *

 

The man stood on the kerb before his home, a small plastic bag held his hand. It contained a copy of one of the many titles that resided upon Victor Trevor’s bookcase. The purchase was half-hearted, one that was aware of both motives and impulse. Such thoughts were often more incriminating than just carrying out the action, however.

Hinges creaked behind him, and he turned to see their maker: a woman of mussed copper-brown hair, worn lipstick, and wrinkled clothing. John’s colleague and employer, Sarah. Though it was certain that more titles could be amended to her name.

Her lips tightened in a flushed smile upon noticing Sherlock. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft but crackly.

Sherlock looked her in the eye, as he couldn’t afford to look elsewhere, and extended his hand. “Hello, Sarah. Have a pleasant evening?”

Her cheeks reddened more and her hand shook his with a delicate touch. She looked off into the street with a breathy laugh. “Yes, I think so. Have you been waiting out here long?”

“Not a moment that I minded,” he assured her. “Are you waiting for a cab?”

At Sarah’s nod, Sherlock held up his arm as a cab approached in the series of cars travelling down the road. The cabbie inside turned on his indicator and began pulling into a spot near them. “There you are.”

“Th  – Thank you,” Sarah said with a confounded expression. She hurried up to the cab and hopped in, and Sherlock turned for the door to his building.

“You seem to be in a chipper mood,” commented John once Sherlock ascended the stairs. “Is there a case?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Sherlock stood in front of the door long enough to remove his coat and scarf. “I’ll warn you now that if you spend too much time attempting to analyze my apparently pleasant mood, you will see it vanish entirely.”

A warm chuckle erupted from the doctor. He was in the kitchen before a kettle, dressed in a bathrobe. His normally charming blonde hair was now a despicable spiky brown due to saturation. “It went well, though, I take it.”

“Leave me out of your conclusions, John.” His voice was devoid of warmth. Why must he always be doomed to reiterate? He took in a quick breath and shook off the annoyance, setting his bag on the end table by the sofa. “I met Sarah up front.”

“Yeah? Thank you for telling me to talk to her.”

Sherlock’s response was a mere hum as he crossed the living room. With three fingers he drew the curtain aside to view the sky. Most of the beauty had begun to fade. He was lucky enough to catch the sight at the time he did. He looked down to his violin and grazed his middle finger against two of the strings. The resulting notes were quite soft, scarcely loud enough for him to hear.

John’s attention to the kettle waned and he watched the figure by the window. Though this Victor brought new light to the man (mainly that he did, in fact, have friends other than John), it did a piss-poor job of clearing anything up. Poking and prodding would do no good, either. “Anything you want for dinner?”

“I’ll go for the leftovers,” came Sherlock’s reply.

“Are you sure? I could-“

“I’m sure.”

Perhaps it was a mistake to think he was chipper at all. John sighed and took the kettle off the burner when it began to whistle. “Tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

The polite words seemed insincere, though John couldn’t put a finger on why. His lips formed a thin line and his knuckles grew white. “All right, Sherlock.”


End file.
